


No Reason

by abbacchihoe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Almost smut, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, as in: they almost fuck but something happens & they don't, drunk!mikasa, jeankasa - Freeform, nicolo is best boy sorry i don't make the rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 14:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbacchihoe/pseuds/abbacchihoe
Summary: Mikasa Ackerman was undoubtedly drunk.Just minutes ago, she had been positively tipsy—in truth, they all were, even Armin, the most sensible of the bunch—though all it had took for her speech to slur, for her rationale to vanish as if it had never been there to begin with, was a seemingly harmless half-glass of Marleyan wine, for which Nicolo was blameworthy.Or, the one where Mikasa gets drunk, and therefore blurts information she otherwise wouldn't, most particularly Jean's handsomeness.





	No Reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raindropsofthanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raindropsofthanks/gifts).



> happy early birthday/belated back to school day, genesis! this isn't worthy of you but I hope at the very least it comes close to worthiness!  
> fyi, this takes place the evening of the flashback scene in chapter 108. in other words, during the year 853. also, i got the idea for this fic when i lost my alcohol virginity a week ago, although i did not get as rip roaringly drunk as mikasa does in this fic. (i didn't even get drunk at all i probably had like two tablespoons tops but that's not important)

Mikasa Ackerman was undoubtedly drunk.

Just minutes ago, she had been positively tipsy—in truth, they all were, even Armin, the most sensible of the bunch—though all it had took for her speech to slur, for her rationale to vanish as if it had never been there to begin with, was a seemingly harmless half-glass of Marleyan wine, for which Nicolo was blameworthy.

Or perhaps the young chef wasn’t so at fault after all, for Jean was furtively reveling in Mikasa’s crapulence: her befuddlement, her reddened cheeks, her uncharacteristic loquaciousness. All of these were temporary, which is precisely why Jean politely refused any more wine: he wanted to remember many things, but mostly, he wanted to remember her laugh, because until tonight, he had never heard it.

Her laughter was a song unfamiliar to his ears, one he loved immensely and straightaway, and so every time she laughed, which was quite often that evening, thankfully, he would listen, all the while wishing it was possible to capture it in a bottle so that it could be preserved for perpetuity.

Besides, wasn’t it Nicolo’s job to make sure they were fully fed _and_ quenched?

That evening, like the majority of them, hadn’t ended the way it begun. They had drunk the wine out of obligation more than anything else. That, and to alleviate their anxiety. They _had_ met with Theo Magath, after all, and Nicolo _had_ conveniently alluded to alcohol’s reposing properties beforehand, presumably because he could sense their unease.

Conferring with those who were more influential than all of them combined was always nerve-racking, especially when the individual was the enemy. But much to everyone’s astonishment, the people of Marley and Paradis had somehow made it through an entire meal without yanking their forks from their lobster and leaning across the table to plunge it into their adversary’s eyes, though Mikasa had come concerningly close to doing so more than once, most particularly whenever Magath incessantly expressed the young woman’s momentousness, how she was never again to put herself in peril, to which Mikasa had responded that she would put herself in peril as often as she saw fit, to which _Jean_ responded that she was the most powerful member of the Survey Corps, second only to Levi, that the number of times she had escaped death was greater than that of fish in the sea, to which _Magath_ responded that he was overexaggerating, to which Jean responded that perhaps he was, but even so, she was important for multifarious reasons, none of which necessitated her to lead a harmless life.

Maybe it was the wine slowly but certainly influencing her, making her feel things she otherwise would’ve suppressed, but Mikasa felt her cheeks flush as she recalled something Jean had said earlier that day, when the Survey Corps had debated who would inherit Eren’s Attack Titan when the time came for him to die: _“There are also many other reasons as to why you can’t become one, Mikasa.”_ Suddenly, she found herself wondering what exactly all those “many other reasons” were, though there was one in particular she could name off the top of her head: Jean’s painfully obvious feelings for her.

She had been aware of his affection with her for quite some time now; six years, if she was being specific. Ever since he had complimented her hair, to be even more specific. She was as equally aware that what had begun as a childish crush had since blossomed into a mature love, rather than evanesce the instant he met someone prettier. Or more stupendous, as she was also aware that his adoration for her transcended her appearance.

She would never admit so aloud, but over time, he had become noticeably handsome, and oftentimes, she would dream he was straddling her for some reason, that they were disrobed for some reason, and for some reason, she would always awake with a peculiar warmth in her loins she couldn’t quite place, though she suspected it had something to do with the dream.

Unbeknownst to her, she had divulged this, as well as other intimate information, in great detail during her drunkenness.

Magath had long since left, and though the meeting had been unexpectedly pedestrian, Mikasa continued to drink. The wine itself didn’t taste particularly pleasant, and the aftertaste was even worse. Then again, she would’ve drunk horse piss, so long as it diverted her thoughts, all of which regarded Jean and his pulchritude, the slight snugness in his pants that hadn’t been there an hour ago when they all were a pound or so lighter, the way his hair framed his face flawlessly, how his stubble further framed his face.

She would frequently fantasize that same stubble scraping her skin, and presently, it was doing just that; she had no recollection of lumbering past Eren and Armin and towards the plush armchair Jean was occupying, nor did she have any recollection of placing herself upon his lap like a child. Her hipbones digging into his, she twisted wisps of his silken hair around her finger, before pressing her cheek against his goatee once more.

“Your hair’s freakishly soft,” She admitted, spittle flying from her lips and spattering his face as she said it.

She was close enough to see his Adam’s apple protrude further as he swallowed, close enough to see the beads of perspiration that flecked his forehead like freckles. “Yours too, Mikasa.”

Despite her drunkenness, she could hear Eren and Armin’s jaws drop, could feel the brunette’s emerald eyes boring into her back, his narrowed eyebrows like needles through her blouse, could practically taste the profanity on his tongue.

Furthermore, she could picture Sasha and Connie’s eyes enlarging in incredulity, could smell Connie’s overpowering cologne, had a sneaking suspicion that the four were watching it unfold partly out of curiosity, but primarily because they knew all too well that it would never again occur.

But she paid neither pair any mind.

“How do you know?” She exclaimed, releasing his hair as if it was ablaze. “You’re so obsessed with my hair, yet you’ve never once touched it. Why is that?”

“Well, I, uh—”

“Touch it,” She said. “That is an order.”

She wasn’t Levi, or even Hange; he didn’t _have_ to do as she said. But, since this was his first—and likely last—opportunity to touch her hair, he obliged; tentatively, as if her hair was sacred, as if the most infinitesimal touch would damn him, he lifted her feather-light, feather-soft bangs, brought them to his nose, and sniffed. Its scent was like no other, utterly indiscernible; words wouldn’t do it justice, anyway.

He released her hair from its stubby ponytail. So many strands sprung free he didn’t know where one began and another ended. Maybe he, too, was as drunk as a lord, but no two strands of her hair were the same: one was always shorter, softer, shinier, or darker than the other.

Her eyes half-shut, Mikasa pressed her cheek against Jean’s upturned palm. He flinched, as if he had been admiring a statue from afar, only to find out he hadn’t been admiring one at all. “You know, ever since you became so handsome, I’ve dreamt a lot about you.”

Behind them, Eren harrumphed. “Horse Face? Handsome?! Armin, remind me what world we live in.”

“She can’t actually mean that,” Assured Sasha, “She’s as drunk as a skunk!” “Actually,” Interjected Nicolo, “Alcohol has been proven to make those who consume it more… _honest.”_

Eren whispered a certain four-syllable profanity under his breath.

At _handsome,_ Jean had promptly withdrawn his hand from her hair. Here was the swallowing again, the stammering. “O-oh y-yeah?”

Mikasa nodded. “In them, we’re naked. I don’t know why. Also, you’re sitting on top of me, sort of, and I’m lying on my back, usually in a bed. Sometimes in a field of grass. In the mess hall, a couple times. That was weird. Again, I don’t know why.”

Eren muttered another quadruple-syllabled swearword, Sasha and Connie erupted in laughter, and the color of Nicolo and Armin’s cheeks coincided with Jean’s.

“Plus, we’re doing all these weird movements, and making all these weird noises. Want me to demonstrate?”

“Please don’t!” Jean and Eren shouted in unison; the two exchanged a look just as instantly.

“All right, jeez,” Grumbled Mikasa, her lower lip protruding in a pout. “At least let me demonstrate another thing we do a lot of in my dreams.”

No sooner had she said that than she closed the distance between them (a measly few millimeters, but a distance nonetheless), yanked on his chocolate-brown vest, pulling him ever closer towards her, and _kissed_ him. To be fair, it wasn’t so much a kiss as it was her lips inelegantly nudging his, and although he had yearned for this for more than half a decade, he hadn’t wanted it to be under these circumstances, had wanted her to kiss him of her own accord, not when she was too intoxicated to know what she truly desired.

Which is precisely why he pushed her off his lap. She tumbled to the floor, her long skirt billowing out around her and revealing her lace panties; Jean cast his eyes downward so as to not glimpse them, though he longed, desperately, to do so, much like he longed to reciprocate her kiss.

“Way to reject a girl, Jean,” Commented Connie sarcastically.

At last, Jean risked a glance at Mikasa, and at once, he wished he hadn’t: the makeup she had reluctantly applied prior to the meeting had been ruined by tears that wouldn’t cease. In all the six years he had known her, it was the first time he had witnessed her cry (a little over a year later, she would cry in his presence again, as Sasha lay lifeless amongst them), and the realization that she was crying because of _him_ is what compelled him to leap, literally, from his chair, kneel on the carpet, hold her to his chest, and pat the tufts of her hair reassuringly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Armin, expectant, restraining Eren, incandescent, from lunging forward and comforting his sister himself.

“I thought—you liked—me,” Blubbered Mikasa, her bottom lip quivering like blades of grass against an unforgiving winter wind. “I thought you wanted—to kiss—me.”

“I do, a lot,” Jean said in a voice soft enough for only them to hear, though he might as well have bellowed; it’s not like his fondness for Mikasa had ever been much of a secret, anyway. “And I do, badly, but…you’re drunk, Mikasa. You don’t know what you’re doing or saying, much less what you want.”

“I know damn well what I want,” She slurred. _“You._ Kissing me. And I’m not dru—”

But then her stomach roiled tumultuously, and a hand flew rapidly to her mouth. Not rapidly enough, apparently, because she proceeded to upchuck all over Jean’s pants, most particularly and interestingly, his crotch.

“If Mikasa kissing Jean and calling him ‘handsome’ wasn’t proof enough, this is,” Connie commented; Sasha thwacked his arm, then offered her longer haired friend an apologetic smile.

Nicolo, insisting that he transfer her to one of the many spare bedrooms, came to Mikasa’s aid almost instantly, as if he had been anticipating such an episode to transpire, bending down to better help her to her feet, wobbly as they were. Mikasa was halfway to her feet when Jean abruptly seized her wrist, then lifted her altogether with a grunt; she outweighed him by a few pounds. Granted, she was made purely of muscle; he highly doubted there was an inch of fat to be found on her body.

“I’ll do it,” He said, beginning to walk—or rather, waddle, what with a woman fairly heavier than him in his arms—out the room and towards the nearest bedroom.

“Such a gentleman,” Observed Nicolo the instant Jean shut the door and rejoined them after having deposited her on the bed delicately. Then, recalling Eren had spilled half, if not all, his wine at dinner, he added, “He could teach you some pointers, Eren.”

The eyebrows of the young man in question furrowed ever further. “Fuck off, Nicolo.”

* * *

The following morning, Mikasa’s eyes fluttered open to find that Jean’s pants were void of her vomit.

“Hey,” She managed, her thumbs kneading her temples; her head ached like it never had before.

The last thing she wanted to do was eat, but Jean placed a plate piled high with breakfast foods beside her, anyway.

Mikasa poked at an egg with her fork. The yolk burst open, tinting her grits yellow. “You’re asking me to eat all this?”

“I’m asking you to eat at least half of it,” Jean replied, rubbing the nape of his neck. The water in the glass he was holding sloshed from the sudden movement, he thrust that into her palms, too. “And drink this. Please.”

She sipped her water, chewed her food. That is, until she realized just how parched she was, how ravenous she was, and she guzzled her water, devoured her food. “Disregard everything I said—everything I _did—_ last night. Like you said, I was drunk, and didn’t know what I wanted. At least I _think_ that’s what you said. I’m surprised I even remembered what I said—and did.”

“Right. You didn’t know what you wanted,” Echoed Jean forlornly. He knew it had been too good to be true—her confessing her infatuation with him, admitting she had sensual dreams concerning them, kissing him—but his heart sank all the same.

Noting his downcast eyes, Mikasa lowered her half-empty glass and partially clean plate onto the nightstand on her left. She veiled her suddenly scarlet cheeks with her blanket as she said, “Okay, I _do_ think you’re… _handsome._ And I _do_ have dreams in which we are… _naked._ And I _do_ want to…want to…”

Jean, emboldened, rose from his chair, sat cross-legged upon the bed, and tried to tear the blanket from her grasp, tried to reveal her reddened face, but to no avail; she was stronger than him, but he was by no means weak, and so they warred for the blanket. “You want to _what,_ Mikasa?” His smile was wider than the ocean he had gone fifteen years of his life without glimpsing.

They fought for the blanket a few seconds more: him, trying to pry it from her fingers, her, lifting it further and further over her head, obscuring more and more of her face, and rightfully so; she could practically _feel_ how hot it was.

“Kiss you,” She whispered beneath the blanket’s woolen barricade.

Jean’s heart pounded harder than it had on any high-stakes mission, during any anxiety-inducing meeting. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

At last, Mikasa jerked the blanket off her head. Her face was a deeper shade of scarlet than Jean’s, for once; his grin stretched ever further at the infrequent sight.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” She said during the one or two seconds in which they weren’t kissing and in which they were, one hand clutching his button-down shirt, the other tracing his stubble. He, too, traced her face, the skin of which was believably baby-soft; at one point his thumbnail had nicked her jawbone and she mewled into his agape mouth.

Prying his lips from hers was possibly the hardest thing he had done, though it wasn’t quite as hard as killing people who had families, friends, lovers. Which is precisely why he pried his lips from hers to ask, “You like me for more than just my looks, right? Because I do. I mean, I like _you_ not just because you’re beautiful, but for so many other reasons, as well. So many, in fact, that I can’t even name them all. I mean, I could, but we’d be here all day. Not that I’d mind, but—”

She pressed a paper-pale finger to his lips, slightly swollen from when she had bit them (she hadn’t even meant to, it just happened; then again, neither of them had ever kissed anyone until now). “Yes, Jean. I like you for many other reasons, your handsomeness included,” He beamed and leaned forward to kiss her once more, until she added, “Speaking of ‘many other reasons,’ what ‘many other reasons’ were you referring to yesterday, on our way here?”

He kissed her anyway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mikasa pried her mouth from his this time. “Bullshit.”

“Didn’t I just say that we’d be here all day if I were to name them all?” He murmured into her sleep-mussed hair. “Besides, I don’t need a reason to love you, Mikasa.”

“Wow.”

“What?” Jean hadn’t felt this confident in a long while. “We literally _just_ kissed, and you dropped the L bomb.”

He lay atop her so that their stomachs, noses, and foreheads were touching, so that their hearts beat in time and against the other’s. “We kissed yesterday, you know.”

Mikasa pulled the blanket over them both, enshrouding them in partial darkness, the only light the candle on the nightstand, and only then did she kiss him again, curling locks of his caramel hair around her index finger. “That didn’t count. I was drunk, plus I puked immediately afterwards.”

Her legs coiled around his torso and pressed down, down, tugging him closer, closer; he fumbled unsuccessfully in the near-darkness for the strings of her blouse, the straps of her brassiere, the waistband of her skirt. Finally, he found them; he untied the strings that secured her blouse to her body somehow, expertly unclasped her brassiere despite never have done so before, then dipped a hand through her skirt’s waistband and squeezed her hipbone, then her thigh; this earned him an appreciative whimper.

His fingers, splayed across her skin, wandered upwards, then horizontally until they were toying with the lace of her panties. She undressed him all the while, unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his pants, lifting the blanket to toss them to the floor, letting it envelop them once more.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He said, his voice oozing concern. “I’ve heard it hurts for girls, you know, their first time.”

She cradled his cheek with the hand that wasn’t bunched around the bedsheets in anticipation. “You could never hurt me, Jean.”

He nodded, then, just as he began to lower himself into her, Mikasa said, “But _I_ can hurt _you_.”

Jean hovered there between her semi-parted legs and smirked. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

Careful so as to not accidently have him enter her, Mikasa straightened and purred into his ear, “I still haven’t brushed my teeth from when I puked.”

At this, Jean scrambled off her, gagging as if he tasted something foul. He tumbled to the floor atop the heap of their clothes with a resonant _thud._ As if on cue, there was a knock on the door, as well as Armin's familiar voice: “Jean? Mikasa. We’re leaving any minute now. So uh, whatever you’re doing, wrap it up.”

“B-be right there!” Jean answered as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Mikasa, biting her lip so as to stifle a gigantic, girlish giggle, helped him.

“You better make this up to me later,” He said, feigning fury.

Once fully dressed, he re-clasped her brassiere, retied the strings of her blouse, re-attached her skirt to her waist. She kissed him as he did; it took all his willpower not to undress her yet again.

“I will,” She said as she smoothed the creases of his shirt, creases that were consequential of her. “Or will I?”

He double-tied her blouse, his fingers aching to roam further. “You fucking better. Why’d you even do that?”

She shrugged. “No reason.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: this was gonna be smutty but then i asked myself: "what would jesus do?" & deleted the smutty stuff i wrote. ok not really, yeah, i wrote s o m e smut, but it was so terrible that, & i'm tired. anyway, i hope you liked this, genesis! i wish you the best of luck in school! speaking of school, i too will be starting & therefore won't have as much time to write :/ but i'll write whenever i can, as per usual!


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